


There's a Reason They Don't Make Punching Bags Out of Wood

by hermitreunited



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Whump, M/M, it's a fic almost entirely about the mindset of a person in a serious break from reality!!, just a lot of mental health issues in here, so that seems like it could be a big trigger, themes of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hermitreunited/pseuds/hermitreunited
Summary: It can’t be real. That briefcase, maybe it was like something from a 60s spy caper. Wouldn’t be the craziest thing to happen to him. Maybe it sprayed him with something and has him locked in the most vivid and horrifying hallucination in his drugged out life.“What do you want from me?” he screams.or,Klaus was kidnapped and beaten for information and still going through withdrawal and he’s never had the strongest grasp on reality anyway. But a flash of light throwing him from a bus into a war zone half a century in the past?  Klaus is calling bullshit.
Relationships: Dave/Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 24
Kudos: 113





	There's a Reason They Don't Make Punching Bags Out of Wood

There’s gunfire. Screams. Burning. Deep impact shaking the earth. Shouts of pain. Desperate pleading, a language Klaus doesn’t understand. Endless curses in broken voices. 

He has no idea which of it is real or fake. 

It’s all fake. 

“What’s this guy’s problem?”

“Please, _please_ no.”

“I want to go home.”

“If he stays there, he's not going to be the only one they get.”

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

People missing arms, legs, eyes, heads. Jaws dangling crookedly, half-hinged. Rib cage craters of red, pooling flesh. Bits and pieces, twitching. Body parts. Not people. More death in one place than Klaus has ever seen in his life.

It can’t be real.

That briefcase, maybe it was like something from a 60s spy caper. Wouldn’t be the craziest thing to happen to him. Maybe it sprayed him with something and has him locked in the most vivid and horrifying hallucination in his drugged out life.

“What do you want from me?” he screams.

“To kill you, asshole! Get the fuck down!” 

Maybe it was just a regular exploding briefcase. Boom, and Klaus is down where he’s been heading his whole life. Maybe it’d been before the briefcase, maybe he’d been shot or he’d smacked his head one too many times on that table, or maybe he’d suffocated in that fucking closet, finally wasted away the last of the life that Ben had deserved. 

Because now he’s in a burning jungle and that’s just not - what even is that? It’s not reality. He’s not really here, not in a way that matters. This isn’t -

“You’re going to die, shithead!”

That’s funny. Hell can’t be that bad, or maybe Klaus has just had too much experience, because that’s funny. He laughs. 

“Do it, then." His whole body is shaking. It’s too much. “Do it!” He’s a coward and a failure and an idiot, and he’s calling the bluff of this impossible place anyway.

Then he’s knocked off his feet, his face pressed into loose earth, a spray of bullets combing the air where his stomach had been only seconds ago. A hard body presses over him, keeping him down, covering up the smoke and gunfire and ghosts. It smells like sweat and blood and dirt and caramel, not the flavor but the color, and if it’s a corpse, Klaus is going to - well, that’s the thing, isn’t it. What is Klaus going to do? Scream? Cry? He’s done plenty of that. It didn’t help, it never helps. Is he going to lose it? To die? He might have done that too. And if that doesn’t help either...

He’s shaking, still, shaking so hard he’s going to shake his skin off. What did those bastards do to him? His heart is quaking and Klaus just wants it to _stop._

It’s not a corpse. Thank christ, the man on top of him is alive. He’s murmuring hushing sounds, seems like he has been a while, but his words are finally piercing through. Nothing profound, nothing original, just, “Shh, shh, you’ll be okay. It’s okay.” But the last time Klaus heard those words it was from behind that horrible blue mask, patting his cheek before rearing back to strike him again, demanding answers he doesn’t have. 

And then he’s crying, sobbing, tears feeding the ground of this place, because he can’t anymore. Whatever it wants from him, whoever he’s letting down this time, Klaus can’t do this anymore. He’s done, he’s done. He can’t keep on doing this anymore. If only that was enough to make it stop. It never is.

* * *

He doesn’t remember getting up from that. He did, he’s not there anymore, he made it through and made it through until it finally stopped, but he doesn’t remember. He stumbled back with the others and fell asleep hard, on a cot that someone died for him to sleep in. He still fell asleep, and he even woke up, and it still hasn’t entirely stopped, not all of it. He’s still... wherever this is.

Vietnam, apparently? 

“ _Vietnam_ Vietnam?” he’d asked the man who told him, a soldier with the jawline of a teenager and eyes that were older. “The _Vietnam War_ Vietnam?” 

After Klaus’ question, those aged eyes were looking at him like he was insane, but Klaus didn’t care. He doesn’t care about most of it, now that he has the aid of his old friend dope. It’s strong, and free, and maybe it’s not hell after all. Of course, that’s probably the perfect ploy for a devious scheme trying to lull him into a false sense of security, so it doesn’t really mean anything. 

Since when has anything ever meant anything. It’s fine. Real or not, he feels high and at this point, that’s absolutely good enough. He’ll wait here in ‘Vietnam’ until whoever the fuck decides they’ve gotten what they wanted from him. Or until they’ve gotten bored. It’s usually both.

* * *

It _is_ boring. It’s boring and it’s not, which turns out to be a suspenseful combination. To live in (‘live’ in), probably not suspenseful to watch, so what the fuck gives? Why is this still happening?

“What the fuck,” he says, weighing one foot after the other up the hills. “This is what you want? This is doing it for you? You need to get a more exciting life, bro.” He thinks the others think he’s praying, blasphemous scorching prayers to an unhearing god. It impresses about as many people as it pisses off, and frankly, that’s a better ratio than Klaus is used to. It doesn’t have any effect either way on whoever he’s talking to. He’d like to get them riled up, at least, have them make a move, any move, pull him out of here to torture him, kill him, doesn’t really matter as long as this goddamn _waiting_ would end.

“Fuck you,” he mutters. “Just remember you’re the one who wanted this.” 

If there’s one thing you could call Klaus good at, it’s annoying the fuck out of anyone who makes the mistake to get close to him. He’s the buyer’s remorse of people. Klaus is an expert at regret.

If he’s already dead, of course, he might as well make the best of it. Hell may be eternal suffering, but Klaus is eternally contrary and he’s got time to kill.

The devil is welcome to try to break him, but Klaus has dealt with his type before. 

There’s this hot GI who smiled at him on a bus and walks into things when Klaus catches him staring and shoots him back a smile through lowered lashes. He’ll be on the ground when Klaus manages to get his hands on a stick of eyeliner. If Klaus is going to do whatever he can to have some spiteful fun while he’s here, he’s going to do that guy.

Please, let them try and stop him.

* * *

The briefcase is a problem. Klaus can talk a good game, but the briefcase is right there. Fucking it all up. Calling his bluff.

Because he’s scared of the briefcase. Scared to lose it, in case maybe he should open it. Scared that he’ll open it and get himself somewhere even worse. 

He doesn’t want them to know he’s scared. He doesn’t want them to know anything. Of course there’s always a chance that the who or whatever it is that’s fucking with him is his own broken, shitty brain. He’ll play against that, too. He doesn’t want his brain to know he’s scared, either.

He gets a lock for it and buries it at the back of the base. He can come back for it if he needs to; it’s not like if he runs off, the army or whatever can actually punish a guy who’s not even enlisted. Really, it’s not possible to punish somebody who is more scared of something else, which is one of the rare truths that has usually served Klaus well.

He hopes they know it. That they _believe_ it when he walks away from the briefcase in the ground. He doesn’t look back at it, he doesn’t mark the dirt, because the point of leaving it behind like this is to prove that he doesn’t care about it. 

The key sticks heavy and hot to his chest; the chain it hangs from pulls his head down. It’s got a thick hold around his neck.

Klaus is so scared of the thing that he can’t even think about opening it before his brain rebels and sends his hands crawling for whatever will keep his head light, floating high above the key pressed to the fragile ribs that chafe his too-fast heart. 

Scared to open it, _terrified_ to lose it. But it’s a game of chicken, and he’s not going to crack first. 

Beneath GOODBYE, his skin tingles and sweats and itches to grab onto that briefcase and just fucking find out already. Then it will be done, right? Except, maybe not. When has anything ever been done just because Klaus wants it to stop?

Maybe he’s done it before. Who knows how many times before. Maybe it keeps resetting his broken, shitty brain - breaking it and letting it stitch itself back together wrong and then breaking it all over again. If he’s done it before, it’s just him doing this to himself, it’s just him prolonging the pain when he could just give in to the release. Flick those clasps open and end the fear of not knowing, at least for a little while.

But someone is good at their job; they’ve given him a reason to stay.

* * *

His name is Dave.

Dave is 29, and a Pisces, and from the Midwest. Dave likes Ray Bradbury, but laughs at Klaus’ predictions of the future, which are also known as 'facts,' for being too fanciful. Dave is in the closet, but only barely; he’s got the door propped open and he’s hiding behind a gauzy rainbow shawl and shouting “yoo hoo” to let people know he’s there. Dave says it just seems that way because he’s never met anyone like Klaus, and it made him obvious. Klaus thinks the first part is true because hello, it’s the sixties and Klaus is spectacular, and that the second part is not. Dave is obvious and eager like a curly-haired puppy, made entirely out of buttery ringlets and enthusiasm,  and Klaus can’t imagine him any other way, It’s part of his charm. It’s probably why Dave is friends with everyone, and not the way that Klaus is friendly with everyone. Dave doesn’t have to work at it. Dave is genuine.

Dave is strong. Klaus learned this back when he was experimenting with not eating, and Dave managed to get Klaus through when he was about ready to fall. A little counter-productive, since being bundled halfway across Dave’s broad shoulders had made Klaus weak. 

Dave is adorable when he’s giggly and rumpled and Klaus teaches him how to smoke. Dave strikes Klaus speechless the next time they smoke together and when he drags in, all smooth and confident, Klaus’ mouth goes dry in a very sudden violent consuming way.

Dave has a chipped tooth that peeks through if you can get him to smile wide enough. Dave’s hair is unexpectedly soft. The skin around Dave’s eyes is fragile, his eyelashes are delicate, but his eyes - his warm blue eyes are full of life. Dave’s a good kisser. Not harsh or hurried or sleazy or demanding. Kissing Dave is like answering questions. 

The hollow of Dave’s palm matches the curve of Klaus’ cheek. Dave’s hands are large and he can catch Klaus’ wrist with one circle of his long fingers. Dave’s lips are fire, and they burn a blazing trail. Dave’s skin is a furnace and Klaus is always so cold, and he pulls back because he’s afraid he’ll leech the warmth out of Dave, but Dave covers him like a blanket until Klaus is at the temperature he’s always wanted, the one he wants for forever.

Dave’s morning breath is thick like dark coffee and Klaus is acquiring a taste.

Klaus is sure of this, even though he has nothing to compare it to: Dave smells like home.

* * *

But isn’t that just so convenient. Here he is, this perfect amazing guy, who likes Klaus - actually _likes_ Klaus. It’s unprecedented. It’s unbelievable. But it’s everything Klaus never let himself hope for, and he’s never been credited as a strong person.

He finds out even he has limits, although he never wanted to.

Klaus is being annoying, like he often is. This time to Tony Bryard. It’s not that he’s trying, not always, but he’s destined to clash with these vintage war hawk all-American good-old-boy republican types. Who like to pronounce the word queer like they think it can hurt.

Naturally, he’s never been a fan of Tony, and he’s cranky from the ache trying to push his eyes out of his skull, and Tony’s just making it too easy. He’s telling bragging stories about his past - all the way back to high school past. And mainly just stories about ‘nailing broads.’ The word choice is reason enough to harass this fucker.

So Klaus leans in and starts talking about his own exploits, wild tales of seducing teachers and stealing away the girlfriends of other guys. His are always just a hair more exciting and interesting than Tony’s stories, because Klaus' are bespoke lies, designed to one-up him every time.

Tony couldn’t admit it, of course, but it’s hard to say Klaus is lying, because Klaus is undeniably hot by every metric. He tilts soft eyes at Tony to underscore that point, and Tony scowls and switches tactics, starts talking about being the team’s star quarterback. He figures that Klaus doesn’t know anything about sports, and he’s right, but that’s not going to stop Klaus from claiming to be the best player on his basketball team, with a rousing tale about scoring the winning point at the last second to win the big championship.

“That’s not even how basketball works,” Tony says, and surely he’s right because Klaus knows fuck-all about sports.

Klaus waves a hand and says, with easy confidence, tossed to the men on his other side like he doesn’t think Tony will be able to handle hearing it, “That’s how it’s played in the city.”

“Philadelphia is a city!” Tony complains, which means Klaus wins, because Tony is actually the star quarterback he claims to be, and Klaus never even went to high school, and he just made Tony pouty enough to whine in front of all the guys. 

Just because it’s over doesn’t mean he can’t rake in one more basket, or whatever. “Oh, of course it is! It’s definitely a city,” Klaus says, “if you are in Pennsylvania.”

He grins. His grin probably would have been slugged off his pretty face if Dave hadn’t come up with some bullshit excuse to pull him away right then and there. He could hold it against Dave, but he’s got better applicants for that position.

“He wants to kill you,” Dave tells him.

“He can try,” Klaus shrugs.

Dave shakes his head. But he smiles. And he keeps shaking his head. But his eyes never leave Klaus’. So Klaus smiles too.

“You are a younger sibling,” Dave says. “You’ve got to be.”

“It’s complicated. But basically sort of yes,” Klaus says.

“Tell me about them.”

Klaus’ mouth is forming words, his lips are turned up in a smile at the edges. It freezes. He is swept in cold all over. “What,” he says. It’s sweltering over here, all of the time. It shouldn’t be possible to be cold like this. 

“I’ve got an older sister,” says Dave. “Do you have sisters? Brothers? Tell me about your family.”

How many months has it been? Feels like several. His fingernails feel like they are all present and accounted for; his muscles are sore but he’s been walking and walking for days. As far as he knows. What the fuck does he know? He doesn’t know shit.

“I just want to know more about you,” Dave says, his vowels stretching into roller coaster loops.

“Fuck off. Fuck this,” Klaus hears himself say, as long as Dave’s voice was tall. Or the other way around. 

Dave is pretty and fun and perfectly caring, more than anyone else ever has been, and Klaus was ready to fall for it because he’s a stupid slutty idiot who’s been desperate to fall for his entire life.

Klaus is not a violent person, much to his father’s unending disappointment, but he makes a tree his punching bag until his fingers shake and bleed. It doesn’t take long; there’s a reason they don’t make punching bags out of wood. It hurts. He doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean.

He wants to scream, and he would if he weren’t a coward. 

‘Come on and get me already! Come on and end it, or show that you can’t.’ He wants to shout that up to the sky, past the canopy, up to whoever is _doing_ this. But he’s still scared of what might be in the trees between him and there, he still can’t trust himself enough to do that when the rest of the men are here. It’s a weakness his dad would reprimand him for, if he hadn’t given up on Number Four years ago.

He just keeps breathing breathing breathing, far too much breathing, because he’s a goddamn addict and that’s a habit he hasn’t been able to kick no matter how hard he tries.

* * *

Maybe his dad does care again. That was his worst nightmare before he came to this fucking place - maybe it still is. It would make sense, in the way that none of Reginald’s plans ever made any sense and were always doomed to failure. 

Maybe Reg never died and everything since Klaus’ last OD has been some kind of secret training exercise. To try to push Klaus into doing or being whatever the fuck Reg always wanted. And this is all a dream, a test, a guided hallucinatory torture tour. 

Maybe Klaus hadn’t seen his siblings again. It’d explain why Five came back looking like the day he left. It would explain why Ben isn’t around now, although not why he was before. Luther might not actually be so huge; Allison might actually be happy.

Reginald wouldn’t need to ask for information on his siblings via Dave, though. 

And that’s really - that’s just it, it can’t be. It’s so fanciful and imaginative for Sir Reginald “Thirty Minutes of Play Times Per Week” Hargreeves.

And his dad could never come up with Dave.

He couldn’t.

Or else his plan is really fucking working, because if Dave is a figment made up by Dad, non-violent Klaus is going to commit bloody murder all over Reg’s possibly-dead-already ass. Just like Reginald always wanted, Klaus will finally learn how to control his powers, and he’ll use them to cram his father’s spirit back into his corpse and smash his shattered face bones into the squishy parts of his brain. If Dave is - but he’s not. Dave cannot be connected to this shit. Dave has got to be real.

That’s just the way it has to be.

The lingering 'what-if' is enough to have Klaus out for blood.

* * *

He can taste it in the corner of his mouth after Tony lands a top notch right hook.

“Is this where you want me?” The universe always has liked bringing Klaus to his knees. He only gets up halfway before he takes another hit. He looks better with dark around his eyes, so this continues to only be wins. He can feel - he thinks he can feel - his pulse throbbing through his temple, spilling from the spot on the side of his head that Tony had used to take him down. “It’s okay that you don’t want to ask, I don’t mind if you have to pretend you’re taking it.”

Rumbles of ‘what the fuck’ bloom behind his back. Klaus isn’t sure how many there are, just that he knew it would blow up harder in front of an audience. Tony rips tight fingers into Klaus’ hair, twisting his neck and face up. Each hair pulling against the forming bruise prickles individually. That’s it, that’s the stuff Klaus needs. Very realistic. An immersive experience.

He lets his hooded eyes slide languidly up, lingering and heavy where he needs them to be. He coats his voice in dark syrup to say, “Is this how Debbie sounds when you do this to her?”

He sends up a quick apology to Tony’s sweetheart back home who didn’t need to be broughtinto this. But if Tony is barely real, Debbie’s definitely not real. Tony’s not imagining her like this, because he doesn’t even know what his fake girlfriend looks like. Klaus starts imagining her, since he’s maybe the only one here with the capacity for original thought, but he doesn’t have time. His face meets the ground and a boot meets his back and his thoughts are gone gone gone, shaking farther and harder out of his head with every blow.

It’s more than just Tony, now; some of the others have decided to pitch in. And that’s good, that’s great, because that makes sense. Klaus said some terrible shit and now he gets the shit terribly beaten out of him. He deserves this. This makes sense. And this is what he wanted - to test the reality of this place by throwing nerve centers onto fists. 

The volume kicks up a few notches, and that’s not a problem until it turns out that it is. Because it’s Dave, throwing his good rapport into the dirt next to Klaus. Because of Klaus.

“Damnit, Klaus!” Dave swears at him once he’s pulled him away. Klaus feels like cursing him back, but his jaw needs more time before it will loosen up enough to let him speak. “You can’t keep - the guys are going to stop listening to me if you keep up like this.”

Klaus spits blood, which probably comes across as more of a statement than he intended, but it doesn’t matter.

Dave looks like he’s reached his breaking point, like Klaus has pushed him to the edge. Amateur. Breaking points don’t mean anything to the hand at your back, pinching the collar of your shirt, a ring around your throat to keep you close. You don’t know the edge until you’ve been held dangling off of it for so long that you’re used to having to look upwards to see the cliff. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“If you can figure that out,” Klaus says, “well, then maybe this will all finally fucking end.” He laughs. It makes his nose hurt. Probing at it with him fingers also makes it hurt. “Feels like they really hit me.”

Dave doesn’t say anything at first; he makes Klaus look at him. There’s so much to see there that it feels like a betrayal. Like a biblical sin. Like an earthquake cracked open the pavement and the secrets at the earth’s core are squirming bloody and exposed. 

“Please,” Dave says. “Klaus.”

“What?” Klaus snarls. “What do you _want_ , Dave?” He sneers the name like he knows it’s a lie. He doesn’t know. Klaus just wants - he doesn’t know what he wants. It’s all too confusing. Only Klaus could be so fucked that the Vietnam War is a _fantasy_. The more fucked up it is, the more likely that it’s real? He’s scared of what he wants, so that proves it’s reality. Or that proves that he’s fucked. It’s so confusing. He wants to pull his hair out. He wants to cry. He wants Dave to be real. He wants what he wants to not be such a goddamn liability. He wants what he wants to matter. “What do you want from me?”

In no time at all, Dave is right there, right beside him; he cuts the distance between them and pulls Klaus in tight, into a crushing, crashing, bruising kiss. Klaus doesn’t need any more bruises, not right now, but this kiss, _this kiss._

Jesus.

For so many reasons, Klaus shouldn’t want this kiss. 

That doesn’t change anything. If this is what Dave’s asking of him, Klaus wants to give and give and give.

* * *

They’ve trekked long and hard and far enough to be back where they started. It’s been months. Dave is reaching the end of his tour. He’ll be ‘going home’ soon. Maybe for Klaus that’ll start things back over again. 

Or maybe Klaus can go with him.

The briefcase is here, a foot under the ground in the outskirts of the camp. That’s where it’s supposed to be, anyway. It’s on his cot by evening, but it wasn’t Klaus who dug it up.

“Found this in the back, heard it was yours,” some soldier says, some guy Klaus has never seen before. His teeth are straight and white, but his smile’s not clean. 

That’s suspicious. 

Klaus can barely bring himself to touch the thing to shove it below the bed. It’s slick and soft and dark, not the dusty brown of the dirt around here. It feels like they’ve made a mistake. It makes his hands shake, but maybe that’s just his hands. He grabs onto Dave’s.

He’s spent enough time with incorporeal things, long enough that he should know. Can imaginary hands steady shaky ones? Can they hold on tight?

It’s been a while since he thought about what they wanted. He’s been thinking about a different them.

* * *

It’s real. It’s all real.

When Dave is shot, he knows it’s all been real.

It’s too fucked to be fake. If someone was making this up, they wouldn’t do this, because this is too much. It’s over the top. It’s unreal. But his fucking life is like this; his luck is exactly like this. This is Klaus’ real life and Dave’s been shot and he’s dying.

He can barely see the wound; everything is wet and blurry. He can barely see anything through the haze of smoke and sparks and pain and the crumbling shattering gnawing distance pulling the life away from Dave’s beautiful beautiful eyes.

His shaking hands are stained with blood that is warm, with blood that feels more alive than Dave’s body. They’ll stain the leather of the briefcase when he goes back to get it, because the briefcase is real, like all the rest of this. It’s real enough to be tarnished, the same way that Klaus’ real hands are tainted by Dave’s real blood.

He’s dying. It’s too much blood. Klaus has seen plenty of death, and Dave is slipping away and Klaus’ hands are slick and unreliable. He’s weak, he’s never had a strong grip. 

It’s stronger than Dave’s, now. He clasps their hands together and Dave doesn’t squeeze back like he always does. Klaus will have to hold tight enough for both of them, but he doesn't want to. It's not fair. He doesn't want to have to.

“This is real,” Klaus tells him. “This. Us. This is real, Dave.” He tells it to a corpse. 

There’s a time-traveling briefcase under his bed, and a ghost over his shoulder.

Fuck this. No. 

Out loud, he says it. “No.” He bunches up the front of Dave’s soaked vest. He keeps his left hand in Dave’s, he won’t let it go.

“This isn’t happening,” Klaus says, and he pulls. “Do you hear me? This is not what’s happening.” His fingertips feel like frostbite but he pulls, and his breath is clouds but he pulls, and his hands are blue and he pulls. 

Dave blinks. So does Klaus. His hands are brightly glowing. Which is new. Dave’s face is pale in the light. “Klaus, what is - how did - ” His chest is hitching as he speaks, but it’s all in one piece.

“It’s okay,” Klaus tells Dave. The light fades away, but Klaus knows where it is. He knows that it’s real. “Do you want to get out of here?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [@sunriseseance](http://www.sunriseseance.tumblr.com/) for helping me out with this!! She is extremely lovely and smart, in case you were wondering. I can't stop thinking about this show, and if you can't either and want a buddy to shout at about it, I'm [@hermitreunited](http://www.hermitreunited.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and I'd love to meet you!


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